


And I'm Home

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, John and Greg are Bros, Lots of Angst, M/M, Nightmares, discussions about sex, mycroft's job sucks sometimes, the boys miss each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 10:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Mycroft's work calls him away. He and Greg miss each other terribly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Arms by Christina Perri.  
> Sorry it took so long to get this up. It kind of ran away with me, and I didn't have a lot of time for writing this week. Hopefully I'll be able to update at least once a week in the future. Anyway, have some angsty pining!  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

The room was still nearly pitch black when Greg woke. He peered blearily into the darkness, unsure what had woken him up at - he glanced at the clock and _Christ_ \- three in the morning, before a shot of realization jolted him fully out of the haze of sleep. Mycroft wasn’t in bed with him. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a massive cause for concern; Mycroft did get up in the middle of the night occasionally, when he woke up from a nightmare and didn’t want to disturb Greg or if his work had phoned with some pressing matter. This morning, however, Greg was still unsettled from their fight the day before. Mycroft had forgiven him but there had still been a lingering tension, and Greg’s immediate thought was that Mycroft had changed his mind.

Before the panic could settle in, a faintly glowing figure slipped away from the wall and the mattress dipped as he sat down on the bed. Mycroft ran a hand soothingly along Greg’s arm and murmured, “Work call. Go back to sleep.” The light source, Greg’s brain informed him sluggishly, was Mycroft’s phone. At his boyfriend's urging, he relaxed back into the mattress and closed his eyes, fading back into the blackness of sleep to the sound of Mycroft's voice murmuring into his phone.

He woke the second time to daylight fading in through the windows, the pale morning light casting a hazy gray over the room. He had a split second to look at the clock before he lunged at it, silencing the buzzer just before it began to cry out. Greg groaned, the movement pulling at his sore muscles and setting off a dull pain throbbing in his shoulder, and he fell back into the comforter with a huff. After a moment, he pulled himself grudgingly out of bed and staggered through his morning routine. _Friday_ , he told himself. _Make it through the day and you can sleep all weekend._ The thought echoed in his head as he showered and got dressed, barely registering Mycroft’s absence. He never understood how Mycroft managed to get up so early without any difficulty. Greg was useless until he’d had his first cup of coffee.

Speaking of which, he made his way to the kitchen, running his fingers through his still-wet hair. He switched on the coffeemaker and was waiting for it to do its thing when he noticed the envelope stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. It had his name on the outside in Mycroft’s handwriting, and Greg frowned. Mycroft often left him little notes around the house: things that needed to get done, where he was going, and little affectionate compliments. Greg had asked him why he didn’t just text, but Mycroft said it was more personal that way, and Greg didn’t really mind. He had a box in the drawer of his bedside table where he stashed the notes after he found them. What was odd about this particular note was that it was in an envelope. The only time Mycroft had used envelopes for his notes had been his Valentine’s Day letters.

Greg opened the envelope and pulled out the folded card inside, trying to deny his nervousness about the contents.

_My darling Gregory,_

___Please do not be alarmed. If I know you, and I like to think I do, you’re panicking that this is my way of telling you that we’re breaking up. While we may have just had our first fight, I believe we resolved it fairly well, so any worries on your part are completely irrational. I am still as much in love with you as ever._

___My job often puts me in difficult positions, a fact you were aware of when we began dating. I find that this is one of those times. I cannot give you any details, as it is a matter of national security, and I hope you understand. All I can tell you is that I must go away for an indeterminate amount of time, most likely a week but perhaps longer. Unfortunately, during that time I will not be allowed any contact with you or with anyone…well, anyone who isn’t meeting with me. It is possible, although unlikely, that I will be able to call you at some point, and if I can I certainly will. I find being away from you pains me more than I care to admit._

___I know this is terrible timing, my darling, but rest assured that I will be home as soon as I can. I eagerly await the moment when I can return to you._

___All my love,_

___Mycroft_

__Greg read the letter through twice before he fully grasped what it meant. He didn’t actually know all that much about Mycroft’s job. Beyond “he is the British government” and “I don’t do legwork,” Greg was in the dark about what exactly it was that Mycroft did. He was aware, of course, that Mycroft left the country occasionally. It was the most information he’d ever been able to get out of the other man; over the years there’d been times when Greg had gone to check in about Sherlock, only to find that he couldn’t get in contact with Mycroft at all. Usually his P.A. informed Greg that Mycroft was unavailable for the foreseen future, and he would be told when Mycroft returned so they could reschedule their meeting. Mycroft would reappear anywhere from a few days to a few weeks later, offer his apologies with the excuse that he’d been out of the country, and then change the subject back to Sherlock. It had aggravated Greg back then, and he couldn’t deny the twinge of annoyance now.

The sincerity of Mycroft’s letter kept him from being too angry. It was clear Mycroft didn’t like being called away any more than Greg liked him having to leave, and while the policeman wished his boyfriend had at least woken him up to tell him in person, he understood that he probably would have been too groggy to understand much of anything.

The coffeemaker beeped at him in irritation, shaking Greg from his thoughts. He poured his coffee mechanically, barely noticing the heat as he gulped it down. If his watch was correct, he was going to be late, and Greg hurried to get out the door, his mind still on the letter.

Greg didn’t think he’d ever been so glad for paperwork in his life. With the case pretty much wrapped up, all that was left to do was take a few statements and finish sorting out the paperwork, and he was glad for the chance to rest his aching body. He really was getting a bit old for fighting off criminals, at least if he neglected to keep in shape. He made a mental note to get back into a more regular exercise routine.

Sherlock and John came down to the station to have their statements taken, and Greg wasn’t surprised to see that Sherlock was carrying Rosie. Even though she was nearly a year old, the consulting detecting hardly set her down. _She’s going to be the child who never touches the ground_ , Greg thought in amusement. _She’ll be living up in that crazy world where Sherlock’s head is stuck._ But the appearance of Rosie also dredged up the memory of something Mycroft had said: “It’s only a matter of time before that daughter of theirs is being ferried around to crime scenes and learning the parts of the body from corpses.” Admittedly, it wasn’t a crime scene and there certainly weren’t any corpses lying about, but the thought of Mycroft’s twisted smile as he said it made Greg’s chest ache along with the rest of him. It had only been a few hours since Mycroft would have left, less still that Greg had known, and yet there was something about knowing he wouldn’t be back for a while that had Greg missing his boyfriend already.

Greg forced a smile and greeted the couple. “Hey boys,” he said, “did I miss the notice about bring-your-daughter-to-work day?”

“We had to take Rosie in for a checkup this morning,” John explained.

The little girl in question let loose a string of unintelligible babble that only vaguely resembled a sentence. She reached curiously out towards Greg, who glanced at Sherlock. There was a moment where it looked like Sherlock was reluctant to release her, before he handed her off to the policeman. “Hey, Rosie,” Greg cooed. He hadn’t spent too much time with her yet, but she seemed to like him well enough. She patted his face lightly, wrinkling her nose at his stubble, and squealed another stream of baby talk. “She’s getting on well,” he commented.

John nodded, “She’s perfectly healthy, and developmentally they said she’s right where she should be for her age.”

“She’s not saying much in the way of real words yet,” Sherlock added, “but she can identify a few basic objects.” There was pride in the detective's voice, and Greg was amused by the double standard. The detectives at Scotland Yard were morons for not being able to keep up with Sherlock’s genius mind, but his daughter was amazing for knowing a couple of words along with her gibberish. Greg remembered what that felt like, as a parent, but until a few months ago he never would have believed Sherlock capable of it, even with his improved social skills.

Greg handed Rosie back to Sherlock, who looked almost relieved to have her back in his arms, and said, “Right. Well, let’s get to it then, shall we?”

With the adorable baby no longer the center of attention, a tension fell over the group. John was doing his best to hide his unease behind a smile. He kept his answers straightforward, even more so than usual, and didn’t mention anything about the previous day beyond details for the report. Sherlock was less subtle. As he gave his statement, his eyes had been boring a hole in Greg’s head. His answers were even more clipped than John’s, and the moment he was done, he said, “Mycroft stopped by yesterday evening.”

Greg didn’t look at him but his grip on the pen tightened, “I know.”

“I assume you made up, considering you slept at his house last night. How long is he going to be away?”

“How on earth do you know that?” Greg knew he was asking for it, but he honestly couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done to indicate Mycroft’s absence.

“You’re still clearly tense about something,” Sherlock said. “It could just be leftover unease from yesterday, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, but you’re usually more confrontational, so that’s not it. I am sorry, by the way, and I told Mycroft as much, but I think you should hear it too. Anyway, as I said, I assume you made up because you slept at his house last night. Mycroft has expensive taste. I recognized the soap brand by smell; it’s very distinctive, meaning you showered there in the morning, so odds are you’d been there overnight. But, if you made up, why would you still be anxious? Presumably you’re worried you haven’t made up as well as you thought. If he was at home, you could have discussed the issue further. Communication seems to be fairly open between you, which is a feat I didn’t believe my brother was capable of before he started dating you, by the way. But you haven’t been able to discuss it, meaning he wasn’t there when you woke up this morning. You keep glancing at the phone like you expect a call, and then looking away without surprise, as if you know the call won’t come. He could just be at work, but then you would know he’d be coming home, and the anxiety would be much less, if not nonexistent. I know Mycroft’s work takes him away from England, so the most logical conclusion is that he has left the country. Simple.”

“That’s not simple. You’re assuming a lot.”

“But am I wrong?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow expectantly.

Greg sighed, admitting defeat, “No. He said he’ll be gone at least a week, but there’s no set timetable. It could be a month before I see him again.” Saying it aloud was somehow worse than reading it, and Greg’s heart twisted unpleasantly.

“I do hope you’re not going to mope the entire time,” Sherlock said. “It’s like watching puppy that’s been left out in the ra-” His words were cut off abruptly as Rosie stuck her hand in his mouth, and he had to stop to avoid nipping her fingers.

“Da!” she burbled, and followed it up with a few other nonsensical syllables.

Sherlock extracted her hand from his mouth, and Greg had to suppress his laughter. He didn’t try very hard, and the chuckle in his voice drew a sharp look from the consulting detective as Greg said, “Good girl, Rosie. If I’d known she could shut you up, I would have gotten you a baby years ago.”

Sherlock’s expression was scathing, but John laughed, and it distracted him enough to forget whatever sharp retort might have been on his lips. Greg smirked, and Sherlock sighed theatrically and addressed his daughter, “It seems you’ve turned everyone against me. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Rosie giggled and clapped. “Fine,” Sherlock’s voice may have been lofty, but his smile was warm, “Rosie, say goodbye to your Uncle Greg.” The noise she let out was closer to a gurgle than actual word-sounds, but Greg accepted it.

“Bye, Rosie,” he said. To her parents, he added, “I’ll be seeing you, then.”

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel, Rosie clinging to his neck at the abrupt movement. John lingered for a moment, and then said, with a great deal of effort, “Greg, I’m sorry. You were right. The way I treat Mycroft...may not be entirely fair.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Greg pointed out, “but thank you.”

John nodded, bobbing in place for a few seconds before he said, “Right. Um, okay.” He fled to follow Sherlock, and Greg watched him go.

Donovan came up behind him, shaking her head, “Never thought I'd see the day. Sherlock Holmes, a father. God help that little girl.”

Greg looked at her, and then back at the retreating figures, “She'll grow up having two fathers that dote on her, who'll do anything to keep her safe. Between the two of them, they'll teach her everything she could ever need to know about life. I think Rosie will be just fine.” Without another word, he turned and walked into his office, shutting the door behind him. Paperwork didn't do itself.

Greg worked later than he normally did, although not on purpose. He was distracted, plowing through the write-ups for the case, and he managed to finish off the last piece before he realized that it was almost an hour after he normally left. There was a split-second where he wondered why Mycroft hadn’t texted to tell him that he was on his way home before Greg remembered, and then going back to the house they shared was the last thing he wanted to do. It didn’t feel like home without Mycroft there, and Greg didn’t know if he was ready to deal with the echoes of the night before. Falling asleep on Mycroft’s side of the bed, crying and hating the quiet of the empty house, had felt a bit pathetic at the time, but it was nothing compared to how it felt in the aftermath. Greg was embarrassed, and the only thing that had saved him was the knowledge that he’d seen Mycroft in places just as bad. They looked out for each other without judgement. Greg could trust in that.

He threw on his coat, waving goodbye to Donovan, who was also pulling a late one, presumably to wrap the case up so she could go home and not deal with it for the weekend. Normally, Greg would be ecstatic to have a free weekend, but with Mycroft gone he almost wanted to be called in. It would keep his mind off of being alone, if nothing else.

Instead of going home, Greg went back to his flat. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was almost surprised to see the thin layer of dust settled over everything. The flat was relatively undisturbed, a testament to the fact that Greg hadn’t been there in quite a while. He struggled to remember the last time he’d spent the night, and found he couldn’t. Most of his clothes had migrated over to Mycroft’s house, so Greg never had to come back to his flat except to occasionally retrieve something he hadn’t thought to grab before or to pick up his mail. He wondered when, exactly, he had started living with Mycroft, and why he hadn’t noticed it happening.

He ordered in because there was absolutely nothing in the kitchen, flicked through some mail, and watched a bit of crap telly before he gave up trying to feel at home. When he got ready for bed, pulling on his sleeping clothes felt strange. Rather than come back for his pajamas, a few days after he’d started sleeping over at Mycroft’s a pair of blue silk pajamas in his size had replaced the ones he’d been borrowing. Greg wasn’t sure how Mycroft knew his measurements or when he’d ordered the pajamas, but he hadn’t questioned it. Now, the shirt that he’d worn to bed for ages felt scratchy against his skin, the sheets were rough, and the mattress was too hard on his aching body. He’d gotten used to Mycroft’s extravagant lifestyle very quickly.

Falling asleep was an ordeal. Greg couldn’t get comfortable. He was used to falling asleep with Mycroft in his arms, and without that he couldn’t get settled. Finally, he used a pillow as a poor substitute, curling around it and wrapping his arm over it. It was far from ideal, but it was enough to allow him to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

Over a thousand kilometers away in a posh hotel room, Mycroft wrapped a blanket around himself in an approximation of a hug, and pretended it was his Gregory’s arms around him.

A week later, Greg had almost gotten used to falling asleep without his boyfriend. Almost. He hadn’t been able to return home, although not for lack of trying. He’d slept in his flat over the weekend, the memories still too fresh in his mind, but on Monday night he’d driven out to the house. He sat in the driveway a very long time, trying to work up the courage to get out of his car, but the house loomed, menacingly empty and dark, and he eventually drove away without even opening the door.

On Wednesday, Greg received a letter from his landlord, reminding him that his lease would be up at the end of the month. Greg let the letter sit on the counter after he read it the first time, a reminder to himself to ask Mycroft about it when he returned. Greg steadfastly avoided thinking about what he would do if Mycroft didn’t come back before the month was over.

The quality of his work didn’t decrease, but it was lackluster at best. Donovan tried asking him about it on Tuesday, but Greg snapped that it was none of her business and she backed off. He brought her coffee the next day to apologize, but he still felt hollow and refused to talk about it.

Sherlock was busy. Between taking on his own cases and dealing with a growing child, the consulting detective not only didn’t consult with Scotland Yard all week, but he didn’t send Greg annoying texts bugging him for cases. John had sent him one text, asking if Greg was up for drinks on Friday, which he had accepted. He didn’t want to spend another evening staring at the walls of his flat and battling loneliness.

When work wrapped up, Greg shot John a text to let him know he was on his way. The pub they met at was about halfway between NSY and Baker Street, and it was one they normally frequented when Sherlock was being a pain and John needed to get out of the flat before he strangled him. Greg had a pint half gone even before John walked in the door. As the doctor took a seat next to him, he raised an eyebrow, “Rough day?”

“Rough week,” Greg responded. He sighed, “I’d just gotten used to Mycroft being around all the time, you know? And now he’s not here and everything’s off balance again.”

John smiled sympathetically, “I know what you mean. You wake up in the morning, expecting to argue over breakfast or something like that, only to remember abruptly that he’s not there, and the rest of the day is just reminders of that fact.” He signaled the bartender to bring him his own pint. “That’s kind of how it felt for me, after Sherlock…”

Greg gave him a wry smile, “Well, at least Mycroft’s not dead. It‘s just a business trip. He’ll be back.” He toyed with his pint, “Is it stupid to miss him this much? I mean, we haven’t been together that long, and I’m not exactly a pining teenager.”

John laughed. “I’m not going to pretend I understand it,” he said. “Mycroft is pretty much the last person in the universe I could ever picture in a relationship. But, somehow, he loves you, and you love him. Missing him is normal. Age has nothing to do with it.”

“So you don’t think it’s weird?”

John shook his head, “I don’t think it’s weird.”

Greg relaxed, taking another sip of his pint and leaning back in his chair. “What about you?” he asked. “How are you and Sherlock getting on?”

“It turns out,” John said, “being in a relationship with Sherlock isn’t that much different than being his flatmate. He still does his crazy experiments and gets up at all hours of the night and argues with me about food, but he’s toned it down a bit because of Rosie. Nothing’s really changed.”

“Except now you sleep in his bed,” Greg grinned, unable to resist the tease. “Seriously, though, we all said it. You were basically married by the time you moved in together. It makes sense that your relationship hasn’t changed all that much.”

“I guess you’re right.” John looked like there was something he wanted to say, so Greg waited patiently as the doctor took a swig of his beer and drummed his fingers against the table. Finally, he asked, “Are you and Mycroft…you know…just, Sherlock made that comment about how you’re not having…”

Greg saved him, “Having sex? You’re an adult and a doctor, John, you should be able to say the word.”

John looked embarrassed, “It’s just a bit weird to think about. I mean, it’s _Mycroft_. He’s Sherlock’s brother, for one thing, and he gives off this vibe of being kind of…”

“Asexual?” Greg filled in.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Sort of. Or at least above stuff as mundane as shagging, anyway.”

“You know he’s not a robot, right?” Greg asked.

“Sometimes I wonder,” John joked, and Greg smirked.

“Mycroft’s not asexual,” Greg said. “And he’s not uninterested in sex. But, as usual, Sherlock’s right. We haven’t done anything yet.”

“Why not? You’ve been together, what, almost two months now?”

Greg shrugged. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer, although Mycroft had never explicitly told him why sexual contact made him nervous so a lot of it was guesswork on Greg’s part. But he wasn’t about to tell John any details after the previous week’s fight. “This is Mycroft’s first relationship in a long time,” he finally settled on saying. “He’s a bit nervous, so we’re taking it slow.”

John nodded in understanding, although he didn’t look satisfied with the answer. “What?” Greg asked.

“It’s just…” John’s discomfort was evident as he squirming slightly in his seat. He cleared his throat, “Between cases and taking care of Rosie, there hasn’t been a lot of time to…er… _do things_ , and I don’t know…”

Greg stared at him, incredulous. “You and Sherlock haven’t had sex,” he clarified, “and you’re asking me…what, for advice?”

John turned a lovely shade of red. Greg laughed and shook his head, “Talk to Sherlock, not to me.”

“How?” John asked. “It’s not exactly a causal conversation.”

“Isn’t it?” Greg asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, how hard is it to ask ‘Oh, by the way Sherlock, do you have any interest in shagging me?’”

“Is that what you did?”

“Did I ask Sherlock that?”

“Did you ask Mycroft that?”

“It came up differently,” Greg said, “but we did talk about it a bit. That’s all you have to do, John. Talk to him. Sherlock understands direct questions the best. Just be straightforward with him, and you’ll be fine.”

“Straightforward,” John muttered, washing the word down with a large swallow of his beer. “Right.”

Greg took pity on the doctor and changed the subject, “Rosie’s birthday is coming up. You planning on throwing a party?”

“Not sure,” John admitted, looking relieved at the new topic. “Sherlock says it’s a bit of a waste, since she’ll only be a year old and can’t really appreciate it. I think he just doesn’t want people traipsing all over the flat. I figure we’ll argue about it some, eventually I’ll convince him that a small get-together is an acceptable compromise, and then on the day of he’ll spend the whole time showing her off and gushing about how perfect she is.”

“He’s really taken to parenting, hasn’t he?”

John nodded, “I’ll be honest, I was a bit nervous about it when Mary first got pregnant. I wasn’t sure how good Sherlock would be with kids. But he’s amazing with her. I think he’s read pretty much every book on parenting under the sun.”

“Well, he wants to get it right,” Greg said. “He loves you, and he loves Rosie, and he doesn’t want to let either of you down.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think he will,” John said. He smiled to himself, “He’s really something.”

Greg fought the urge to snort. He settled for saying, “This is why there was a betting pool on your relationship for nearly six years.”

John raised his eyebrows, “six years?”

“Yep,” Greg confirmed. “We kept having to move the dates.”

“Just in your department, or…?”

“Well, it started in the department, but then it kind of...expanded. Mrs. Hudson was in on it, by the way. Molly was considering throwing her hat in the ring towards the end, but she decided against it, and Mycroft only had a bet against me.”

“So who won?”

Greg grinned smugly, “Between me and Mycroft, I did. He figured Sherlock wouldn’t get his act together for at least another year, but I figured he wasn’t counting on you making the first move. Once you figured it out, you moved pretty fast.”

John shrugged, “I’d spent years wanting him without realizing that’s what I was feeling. I wasn’t about to waste any more time.”

“Exactly,” Greg nodded. “Anyway, Mrs. Hudson won the other pool. She was extremely optimistic about the odds of you getting together.”

“Well, I knew that,” John said. “She’s been implying we’re a couple for years.”

“Bit more than just implying, mate.”

John nodded, smiling into his beer, “Yeah, that’s true.” He cleared his throat, “In case it wasn’t obvious, you do have an open invitation to Rosie’s birthday. I’ll let you know when we settle on a date, but you’re definitely on the guest list. You and Mycroft both, although I’m not sure it’s really his sort of thing. I don’t think he’s even met Rosie yet.”

“Well, she is his niece, or near enough,” Greg said. “And I think Mycroft might surprise you. Either way, I’ll make him come.”

“And you’ll step in if he and Sherlock look like they’re going to come to blows?”

Greg laughed, “Do you really want to get between that?”

“Oh, God no,” John smirked. “That’s why I’m asking you to do it.”

They chatted a bit longer about more mundane topics: the weather, the latest football match, what Anthea’s real name was (a question that, apparently, had plagued John for years. He was disappointed that Greg hadn’t learned it yet). After a little under two hours, John got a text from Sherlock. “He’s just figured out our latest case,” John explained as he stood up, throwing on his coat. “He needs me to get back so we can go talk to our client.”

Greg stood too. “You liking it?” he asked. “Getting back to work, I mean. With Sherlock.”

John gave him a crooked grin. “Course. I missed it. I always miss it. You going home?”

Greg gave half a shrug, “I’m going back to my flat. It’s not really home anymore, though.”

John looked sympathetic. “Mycroft will be back soon,” he said. “It’s okay to miss him, but don’t pine too hard. He’s coming back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg waved him off. “Go home to your crimes and your ridiculous husband and daughter.” He couldn’t keep the smile off his face, and John returned it before he walked out of the pub. Greg threw down some money for the drinks and walked out too. It was dark and cold outside, and Greg pulled his coat tighter around him to ward against the chill that stung his bare skin. His footsteps thumped dully on the sidewalk, muffled by the hum of the city around him, as he made his way towards his flat. The biting weather made it easier to pretend the tight feeling in his chest was just a side-effect of the cold.

***

_Everything was dim. A thick cloud of mist swirled around Mycroft’s ankles and he turned on the spot, trying to make out anything in the darkness. He was standing at the edge of a lake, the water lapping at the shore and running over his toes._

_“Myyyy-croft.” The sing-song call set off every warning bell in his head. He slowly turned to look at his little sister, just as she was at four years old, standing with her feet planted firmly in the sand and her hands folded behind her back. Her pigtails bobbed gently as she grinned at him. “Play with me, Mycroft,” she said. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” From behind her back, she drew a long kitchen knife, the blade already glistening with something thick and dark._

_Mycroft tried to take a step back, but found he was rooted to the spot. “I-I don’t want to play with you,” he stuttered._

_Eurus’s face turned stormy. She began walking towards him, brandishing the knife out in front of her. “I want you to play with me,” she snarled. “I don’t have any friends, and Sherlock wasn’t any fun. Play with me, Mycroft!”_

_“No.” It sounded a lot braver than he felt._

_“I said,” the voice came from behind him and Mycroft spun to see Eurus, grown up and in her white institution clothes, standing waist deep in the lake, “I want you to play with me.” Her voice was light, her face devoid of any emotion besides curiosity, but the thing that set Mycroft’s body on fire was her arm, casually wrapped around Gregory’s chest in a possessive gesture._

_“Leave him alone,” Mycroft managed to croak. Gregory just stood there, looking at him, his eyes pleading._

_“Hmm,” Eurus considered him, and then shook her head. “No. You won’t play with me. I don’t like your friend; you play with him but not with me. I think I’ll do to him what I did to Sherlock’s friend. Maybe then you’ll be nice to me.”_

_“No!” Whatever spell was holding Mycroft in place snapped and he lunged forward, but it was too late. Eurus threw herself backwards into the water, pulling Gregory down with her. Mycroft reached out to grab him, to haul him back to the surface, but his hands closed around nothing._

_A stabbing pain shot through his back, and he cried out, turning back to face young Eurus, who was pouting. She examined the knife in her hands, the blood dripping off of it and soaking her hands and dress. She looked up at him, “You’re no fun, Mycroft. You and Sherlock. Neither of you are any fun.” She plunged the blade straight through his chest._

Mycroft sat bolt upright in bed, his heart racing. It took a few choked attempts before he could draw in a proper breath. He sat there in the dark, shuddering and clutching at the sheets, for over a minute before his body slowed down and stopped fighting him. Finally, he was calm enough to lean back against the headboard, glancing down at the clock to see that it was only half past two in the morning. He sighed.

For eight days, Mycroft had been counting the hours. Now, in the early hours of day nine, Mycroft was starting to wear thin. Up until a few weeks ago he’d been able to go months like this, sleeping in hotel rooms, meeting with world leaders and the people who actually ran the world alike, pushing his brain to solve the puzzles that held society together until a solution could be found. But without Gregory by his side, Mycroft found he was exhausted. The nightmares, still present but dulled a great deal by the policeman’s presence, resurged with a vengeance. Mycroft hadn’t slept more than an hour or two a night since he left. His stomach was tied up in knots, and he guiltily remembered that it had been over forty-eight hours since he last had a proper meal. Every system in his body was at maximum stress level, and the only thing he’d managed to force down was tea and the occasional pastry. He hadn’t reached for the cigarettes yet, but he was well on his way in that direction.

Mycroft fumbled for his phone, pulling it off the charger, and the screen lit up, nearly blinding him with its brightness. He cradled it in his hands, smiling down at the picture that was now saved as his lock screen. For years he used a basic black background, but a few weeks ago Gregory had gotten ahold of his phone and decided to change it. The policeman had dropped onto the couch next to him while he was writing a few notes to relay to Anthea and asked, “Is that of national importance?”

It hadn’t been, so Mycroft shook his head, prompting a lopsided grin from his boyfriend. “Good,” Gregory said, and plucked the phone from his hands.

“Gregory, what are you-?”

Ignoring him, Gregory wrapped an arm around his shoulders and extended the hand holding the phone to get both of them in frame. He’d opened the camera app. “Smile,” he said. Mycroft frowned at Gregory, who beamed back at him and snapped the photo. He looked at it, “Not bad. What do you think?”

“Why are you taking pictures of us?”

Gregory swiped the screen and opened up settings, “Your lock screen is boring.”

“I hardly see the connection.”

“Most couples have their lock screen saved as a picture of them with their partner,” Gregory informed him.

“I was under the impression we weren’t most couples.”

Gregory held the phone out to him triumphantly, having successfully set the picture as Mycroft's lock screen. Mycroft had to admit, the photo wasn’t half bad. He took his phone back from his boyfriend, who asked, “Can we do one with my phone now?”

“Alright,” Mycroft consented. The kiss Gregory gave him in thanks was sweet and successfully made Mycroft forget any reservations he might have had.

Now, that picture was the only thing standing between him and insanity. They were in a zero contact agreement, meaning just about all functions on Mycroft's phone, including all calls and texts, were disabled, but he still had the picture. Whenever Mycroft’s stress reached its peak, he pulled out his phone and looked at the photo. Seeing Gregory’s grin, the way even a smartphone camera could pick up the way he glowed with happiness, was enough to calm him down and balance him out. Until, of course, the next moment of crisis crashed over him.

Giving up on sleep, Mycroft slipped out of bed. He dressed quietly and slid his phone into his pocket. The hallway outside his hotel room was silent, and he made his way to the elevator without seeing another soul. He took it to the roof, which was open and lined with gorgeous planters. The small garden made a stunning companion to the view stretching out around the building in all directions. Mycroft made his way to the edge of the roof, smoothing his fingers over the white stone that served as a railing, and gazed out over the city. Vienna sparkled under the stars.

A figure sidled up next to him, “I’ll never get used to how beautiful Vienna looks at night.” Her accent was distinctly American, although Mycroft couldn’t place the exact region. Somewhere in the vicinity of Pennsylvania, most likely. He turned to look at her. She was one of the four delegates he’d been meeting with over the past week, the representative for America, and he knew her only by the code name she had been assigned; Foxtrot. She was pretty, objectively speaking, about Mycroft's age and with tan skin and tightly curled black ringlets. Despite the cold she only had a thin pullover that clung to her body and her skirt billowed out around her knees. In their discussions she had been thoughtful and animated, and Mycroft appreciated her quick wit. She was the sort of woman he probably would have been attracted to, had he been interested in women. As it was, he sorely wanted to recruit her.

“Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing towards the ledge.

“Not at all,” he replied.

With a groan, she dropped onto it, yanking off her strappy heels and rubbing her feet. The cold didn’t seem to have any effect on her. “Be thankful,” she said to him, “that you don’t have to wear these crazy shoes all day.”

“You don’t either, you know,” he pointed out.

She smirked at him, “I know. But they make my legs look amazing, so I guess it’s a fair trade. Distracts all the boring government boys from what I’m doing under their noses.”

“An admirable strategy,” Mycroft returned. “I shall have to try it sometime.”

She let out a laugh. “So,” she asked, “what brings a funny gentleman like you out here at this time of night?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Mycroft answered honestly.

“Me neither,” she said. “I hate being away from home for long.”

“As do I.”

She gave him a contemplative look. “Why do they call you Antarctica?” she asked.

Mycroft gave her one of his patented sly smiles, “You know we aren’t supposed to reveal our names. It could compromise our work here.”

“I’m not asking for your name,” she pointed out. She grinned, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Mycroft frowned, detecting the subtle flirtation but unsure what to do about it. She didn’t appear inclined to act on it, at least without further prompting. “I believe it’s supposed to be a joke,” he said. “My colleagues occasionally refer to me as the ‘Iceman,’ and I suppose Antarctica is a play off that. I’m known for being exceptionally cold.”

“I don’t think you’re cold at all,” she said. “In fact, you seem to be warming up to me pretty nicely.”

“So why do they call you Foxtrot?” Mycroft deflected. “Are you a good dancer? Or does your real name simply being with the letter ‘f’?”

She leaned forward, “You’re supposed to be clever, Mr. Iceman. Can you figure it out on your own?”

Mycroft considered her for a moment, and then said, “You're with the Americans. They're known for being rather regimented, and they're hardly praised for creativity. I'd hazard a guess that the latter of my suggestions is correct.”

She pursed her lips, looking impressed, “Not bad. Not right, but not bad.”

“Oh?” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at her. “Why then?”

She smirked at him, “Because I'm always two steps ahead of everyone else.”

Mycroft laughed, “Very clever. Did you come up with it yourself?”

“I wish, but sadly, we don't get to come up with our own code names,” she sighed dramatically, looking theatrically out into the distance, “If only.”

“And what would you choose?” he asked, “If you could pick any name for yourself, what would it be?”

“Auslese,” she answered immediately, “‘cause I'm fine, just a bit sweet, and I've aged well.” Her grin was infectious, and Mycroft found himself smiling too.

“A stellar choice,” he complimented.

She hesitated, licking her lips in a clear indication of nervousness, although she was trying to appear confident. “I know we’re not supposed to be fraternizing with the other delegates, but...if you’re interested, you could come back to my room and find out just how sweet I can be. Might help both of us sleep better.” She looked up at him coyly.

Mycroft swallowed hard, a bit taken aback at her boldness but not surprised, given the cues in her body language. He looked away, out over the city, and then back at her. “I am flattered by your interest,” he said, “but I must decline.”

“Stickler for rules?”

“In part, although I have been known to bend them in other ways on occasion,” Mycroft admitted. “You’re a lovely woman, but I’m afraid I am otherwise…involved.”

She looked moderately disappointed, and her eyes flicked down to his hand. She must have noticed the ring before, but made the, admittedly correct, assumption that it wasn’t a wedding ring, because she said, “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

He gave her an apologetic smile, and she leaned back, sliding easily into rejection without looking upset. “Smart, funny, and gorgeous?” She shook her head, the corner of her mouth quirked up in half a smile, “You wife is a very lucky woman.”

Without thinking, Mycroft said, “Actually, I don’t have a wife.”

There was a moment of confusion before realization dawned on her face, “Husband, then?”

It wasn’t strictly true, but Mycroft nodded anyway, in part to keep up the façade of marriage and partially because the idea of being with Gregory like that sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. Mycroft had never been interested in marriage before; he considered it an antiquated custom designed only to establish a measure of control over another person. Being with Gregory, however, made him contemplate it with a much warmer opinion. Mycroft could very easily envision himself vowing to be with Gregory for the rest of his life. Their relationship was still far too new to even consider making the idea a reality, but someday, in the not too distant future, Mycroft hoped his boyfriend would consent to becoming his husband.

“Just out of curiosity,” ‘Foxtrot’ drew his attention back to her, “would I stand a chance if you weren’t married?” It was clear from her voice she wasn’t trying to propose anything. She just wanted to feel him out without being too obvious about it.

“I’m not attracted to women,” Mycroft told her bluntly, “but if you’re ever in the market for a new job, you should contact my office. It would be refreshing to have someone as bright at yourself working with me.”

“I might just take you up on that,” she grinned at him. She stood up, heels in one hand, and patted his arm. “I’m going in. See you in the morning.”

“It already is morning,” Mycroft said reflexively.

“The sun won’t be up for at least an hour,” she called back to him, making her way to the door. “In my book, that means it’s not morning yet.” The door swung shut behind her with a loud clang, and Mycroft turned back to the city, breathing in the crisp, cool air. He stood there for a long time, thinking of Gregory, and greeted the morning sun.

***

On Tuesday night, Greg finally gave in. Staying at his flat, alone with all the memories of a rather pathetic life before his relationship with Mycroft, just brought back the loneliness tenfold. The single life worked well for some people, Greg mused, but he was never designed to be alone. He liked people too much.

The house hadn’t been disturbed for nearly two weeks. Greg’s footsteps echoed loudly on the floor as he crossed the threshold, and he compulsively went through the rooms, turning the lights on as he went, just so it would feel like he wasn’t the sole occupant. He was tired from appearing in court for a solved case earlier; staring down a killer while you sat in front of them and told everyone exactly what they had done was unnerving and stressful even after years of it. At any rate, he wasn’t much in the mood for cooking.

He ordered in, but rather than eat alone in the spacious dining room, Greg brought his takeaway into the home theater and settled on the couch with _Arsenic and Old Lace_ playing on the screen. Mycroft had teased Greg about his taste in old films once; Greg generally would rather watch newer films, but when he did watch black and white ones he preferred a good bit of comedy. Mycroft, as usual, favored dramatic classics like _Casablanca_.

About halfway into the movie, Greg had finished eating and was dozing in and out of consciousness when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, wondering if work needed him back. Instead, Mycroft’s name lit up the screen, and Greg scrambled to answer it, turning down the volume of his movie as he did, “Mycroft?”

There was a soft chuckle on the other end of the line, “I take it you missed me.”

“You haven’t got a clue,” Greg said. Even just hearing Mycroft’s voice eased the ache in his chest.

“I think I might,” Mycroft responded. “If it’s anywhere close to as much as I missed you, then I imagine it was quite the painful two weeks.”

“So you’re coming home?” Greg asked hopefully. A sound distracted him: a car was pulling up in front of the house.

The practical part of Greg told him that it could be anyone stopping, but he ignored that part and raced for the door, wrenching it open in time for Mycroft to say with a characteristically self-assured smirk, “My darling, I already am.” The words echoed over the phone, which Greg all but threw to the side before he dragged Mycroft over the threshold and into a passionate kiss. The door slammed shut behind them, and Greg backed Mycroft into it, savoring the warm length of his boyfriend’s body pressed against him and the softness of his lips. When Mycroft broke the kiss both men were panting. Mycroft’s cheeks were flushed. “That was…quite the welcome.”

“Sorry,” Greg said sheepishly. “I really did miss you quite a lot.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Mycroft’s blush deepened.

Up close, Greg could see that he looked exhausted. He brushed a lock of Mycroft’s hair back and murmured, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit, love. When’s the last time you got a good night’s sleep?”

“I believe that would be the day before I left.”

“Seriously?”

Mycroft nodded. “It has been…difficult to sleep soundly without you in my bed,” he admitted.

“I know the feeling,” Greg said, mostly to reassure Mycroft that he wasn’t alone there. After all, it was true. He stepped back, taking Mycroft’s hand and pulling him towards the stairs, but then he paused, “What about food? Have you eaten today?”

“Anthea made sure I ate the moment I stepped off the plane,” Mycroft said. Seeing Greg’s furrowed brow, he explained, “I’ve officially been on English soil for about two hours now. First I had to make a report, but I did come home the moment it was over.”

“Alright,” Greg said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? You look about ready to fall asleep on your feet.”

“I think that would be wise,” Mycroft agreed. He paused, and then added quietly, “In the interest of complete honesty, I will say that although Anthea ensured I was fed when I arrived, my eating habits while I was away were abysmal. I may have justified missing several meals by convincing myself that work was more important.”

Greg wasn’t entirely surprised. He’d had a suspicion that, when left to his own devices, some of Mycroft’s progress would be undone. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “We’ll just have to make sure you get back on track, then.”

Mycroft looked relieved, and he smiled at Greg. “Bed, then?”

“I’ll be right up,” Greg told him. “I just have to shut everything off down here.” Mycroft nodded and ascended the stairs, and Greg shut off all the lights, cleaned up the takeaway containers, and turned off the film. Then he followed Mycroft.

His boyfriend was already under the covers, and Greg changed quickly into his pajamas, turned off the light, and slipped in next to him. Almost immediately, Mycroft shifted, pressing close to Greg so the older man was spooning him. Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s waist, tucking his face into the back of Mycroft’s neck and breathing him in. The thought of his lease drifted across his mind, but he pushed it away. There would be plenty of time for that in the morning. At that moment, all he wanted to do was fall asleep with his arms around his boyfriend. At long last, Mycroft was back where he belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> Would anyone be interested in me doing a timeline for this series somewhere? I have one so I can keep track of it, but I'm not sure how hard it is for you guys to follow. Anyway, hope you liked it.


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